Addiction
by quidaam
Summary: Words, mere words! And yet, what a strange magic there was in them.Sephiroth torments Leon...of course.


Disclaimer: The characters are so not mine, and as much as I wish they were so that I could bring to life all of my rabid fangirl obsessive dreams in an amazing and epic RPG, complete with heart-wrenching soundtrack and real-time battle sequences, it isn't going to happen.Unless my mother has bought me an uber cool Christmas present...

A/N: And...yeah, I think it still needs some work, it is a bit confusing at points, but I was trying out a new perspective thing. And review and I will love you forever.

Warning: OOCness. On both Sephiroth and Leon's parts. sigh

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"Where were you in the end?"

Bright mako green met the swirling mass of stormy grey; a storm filled with hurt, confusion, love and just a hint of regret. It was the love that hurt the most. It was never suppose to end up like this; it was never suppose to end with someone caring, someone else wasn't suppose to get addicted to the darkness.

Once more, grey eyes were cast to the floor searching for something, anything, that they might be able to gaze at in hopes that it would provide some sort of relief from the burning stare that was directed at them. He never knew how much the hollow stare could burn before; it was far more potent than hate.

And there were words, simple yet powerful words that could be called upon, summoned, at the simplest command at a time like this. They were there, they just had to be pulled from their dusty corners and brought to life. The sharp green could see them, sense them, sleeping just beyond reach, waiting to be formed and thrown. Waiting…

"I-…"

"No."

The call was broken and words lay still, slightly stirred but not woken from their deathly slumber in the corners as life moved on. But there were still more words, still more attempts to be cutting, to be accusing, and pierce the armor that was so well worn after years of hard labor. But they were false words, dull words, words that had no life in them, no chance of life and no chance of ever becoming a high.

"I don't want to hear anything from you. That is where it all began. That is where it all started to end."

Pacing, back and forth, back and forth, as if wearing a hole in the ground beneath the anxious and unsteady feet would somehow make everything better. Like somehow, up from the trodden ground, the answers would appear and allow everything fall back into some semblance of right that was lost so long ago. But they were never in it for the right, there was no fun in that. They were both in it for the fun, for the anger, for the high.

Grey softens, not much, but no longer quite so stormy as before. There was a calm in them that was uneasy and almost unnerving as it warned of an impeding storm that was far worse than the first. Far stronger than before, possibly with the strength to crush the words, the darkness, keep them still and covered in dust, letting a sort of dead silence reign over the moment and let the power fade away.

The sound of soft breathing was met with nothing more than the sound of passing time, a mocking sound as it danced by, tearing at the edges of their precious last moment. There was no way that time would let it go by without taking something from it, without stirring the perfect words into some sort of a mess to hang above their heads like a child's first finger painting.

"It was never about the end for you, was it? There was always something more that you wanted from it, some other hidden prize. You don't care about endings, they wrap too much up, solve more than you like. Is that it? You don't like everything to be complete then? You just like the high, the mystery and allure of something that has no end."

Funny how when you are faced with yourself that everything starts to fall apart, everything starts to make just a little less sense and becomes just a little bit darker when a moment ago, the world was alight with answers. Then, there is that cold creeping feeling of darkness, the chilled-to-the-bone feeling as everything you fought for so long settles back into place so perfectly that you are sure it never left in the first place.

The dark haired man stopped, a look something far to similar to fear creeping into his normally stoic grey eyes. There was not suppose to be a smirk tugging at the corner of a mouth could carve daggers and caress like silk. There was not suppose to be a glint in the mako green eyes that suggested that maybe, just maybe, that was a mistake, that in those simple questions would be the key that could unlock everything, every dream, every poem, every nightmare. But there was, and suddenly being faced with a town of Heartless seemed easier than being faced with the darkness that had consumed his former lover.

"Have I ever said that I wouldn't be there in the end? How do you even know that what you say was the end, really was the end? Squall, darling, this isn't a movie or a story, this is life. There is no end but the very end, and you look very alive to me. Take heart in that fact."

Ice can burn, and it can burn in the very worst way. In that way that can make your heart stop and the world spin just that little bit faster, leaving you alone in a blurring world of memories and figures, unable to tell which is which and whether or not you should even care. That was the talent held within those eyes, held and buried within the dark and weary soul that had lived in darkness and sought the worst of himself.

With a simple breath, there was no right and wrong anymore, suddenly there was not even a moment as it had been lost, lost to the power of the words and darkness that had taken hold. Those that can weave words do co much more than piece together letters. They make tapestries out of moments, thoughts, feeling and looks, bringing them together to create something that no other could ever hope of creating again and, in some cases, no one would ever wish to create again.

"Don't start with me again. I am stronger than that now; I can see the traps you leave in those innocent words. I can see them…"

There it is, just faintly, but it is enough for one with such a talent to know that they can push further still and score; to know that the other was still addicted. And in all truth of the matter, probably would be for the rest of their life as there was no cure for this addiction, no way to escape it. Once you were hooked, you were hooked for life and that is why it was far better to be a weaver than the admirer.

Rain clouds, or what appeared to be rain clouds, loomed just beyond in grey skies. It almost seemed as though they were trying to warn of something that was coming, but what was coming didn't matter as this moment, the fraying and forgotten moment, was all about the now.

"You can see them… yet you are still addicted. I can see that, I can see that need hidden deep within you. You can't lie to me. You still want me."

Silence. It is almost comforting, aside from the echoing sound of the clock in the background, nearly forgotten. It is humming its tune in an attempt to bring back all of those countless hours spent alone, with only the passing time as company. Yet, in the end, Time and missed moments make far better companions when compared to Regret. Regret that already stains the past and makes the future all that more difficult to go ahead with, especially when you are facing it, facing its cold and cruel and strangely perfect eyes.

"Addicted? Is that what you think I am? To you?"

The silence is shattered by something light, hollow, sharp. It is the laughter of someone that has been to the end and refuses to go back. Refuses to repeat the mistakes of the past no matter how much they really wish they could. The lingering memory of being controlled by something you could never see, never touch, but could always feel. Sharp grey focused, as if trying to see the next trap, the next wave of darkness before it came in hopes of building a wall, even a mound, that could possibly keep him safe, keep him sane.

"Addicted to me? I don't think that you could ever be addicted to me, bewitched, perhaps, but never addicted."

There it was lurking in the corner of dancing green eyes, that knowing smirk that was seductive and condescending all in one go. As if it knew something that no one else knew, and in reality, it did. But admitting that would be like admitting defeat, admitting that there was some power that was hidden in behind those eyes, behind that smirking mouth that could sharpen sound into deadly daggers, and that was not something that anyone is willing to accept.

Grey eyes narrowed and suddenly, the distance between a raging storm and the burning ice is far less than it was but a breath ago and the past seemed intent on raising itself from the frosted graves of memory.

"You are a liar. A beautiful, manipulative and masterful liar. But I will not play your games anymore Sephiroth, I will not be a pawn to your power and dance like a puppet for your own amusement."

Cold. That was the feeling of concrete suddenly meeting the back of a burning storm and the realization that perhaps there still was an addiction to the dark power of the silver laden tongue. And as memories rip and tear, claw their way from frost coated graves and bring with them words, promises and lies alike, back to life with the touch of lips. Suddenly ashes burn brightly once more, memory providing the pattern of intricate trails burned into cold and dead skin and the addiction is back, the power is back.

"You remember, don't you? You remember what it felt like…"

There it is, the ability to sway, to manipulate, to control. Just like that, the words that were hiding in dark and dusty corners come forward, spilling from perfect lips and wrapping around the willing ear, suffocating it in promises and obscuring the present with woven words, thick and heavy in the otherwise silent air.

So silence, like death, settles into a comfortable position in the room. He laughs as eyes refuse to meet and words start their dance of seduction, smothering the doubt and brining the addiction back to the surface. He wraps around, suffocating the moment in something that almost seems to stop the time, stop the future from coming and the past from haunting. But not even silence can do that. Remember now. You remember. Silence is a welcomed demon compared to regrets, compared to mistakes that seem hell bent on repeating themselves. Regrets that are attached to the soft and perfect lips that were slowly trailing down his jaw and neck.

Shatter it. You have to shatter it…Can't remember, I can't remember…

You don't want to remember, but it was so beautiful; warm, embracing and perfect. It was perfect.

"You lie…"

There is no conviction in those words anymore, no sense of resistance in those eyes that show a retreating storm, a storm that has no power over the eloquence that it has been faced with, especially with the help of an old memory. An old addiction.

More words, perfect and swirling words make their way into the open, dancing and weaving together in a perfect dance, a perfect net to catch whom-ever may be unfortunate enough to cross its path. But there is only one that will be caught, only the one that has been caught before and will be caught again because, in reality, he never escaped in the first place. That is the power of the words, their ability to haunt, to lurk in the back of the mind and make the heart betray the self, to make an enemy of allies and turn the world on its head.

"I never lie , you just refuse to see the truth. I never lied, and I never will lie; I have no need for it. Whatever I say becomes Truth, and you know that."

Grey eyes search the floor again as time slips past, tearing at the edges of the moment, fraying them so that the moment will never fit back into place with the perfect fit it once had. Silent words hang above the bowed head, threatening to fall about, clatter to the floor and break the spell that keeps everything in the moment. It's stealing past -moving forward leaving everything behind- slipping through the cracks left by old wounds, cracks that are never to be mended and never will be so long as he has those words. As long as those words are under his control, there will never be any healing.

The rustle of fabric breaks the hanging silence, rips a hole in the tattered thought balloon above and allows the words to clatter, spill down the porcelain cheeks to stain the floor below. There is no going back now, no saving grace for the one that fell pray to all those fears and all the lies –caught-, the netting was perfectly woven, an no one ever gets away.

"I… I never wanted-…"

"Shhhh, you don't need to say it darling, I know. I know."

And just as hope starts to creep in, think that maybe, maybe this time the words word be so cruel, the words won't leave that bitter taste behind, tainted with need, the longing, for more, everything stops. Silence laughs from his chair in the corner, amazed at how one who weaves words knows how to wield silence so well, wield it with such a malicious intent.

It isn't until minutes, hours, later that the sound of the shutting door finally reaches deaf ears and the only sound to keep it company is the passing time as it fades the memory of a moment that never should have happened. But it doesn't make the high fade, it doesn't allow the need for more of those elegant yet cruel words to fade; time can never dull the addiction to darkness and words, and it never will.

"_Words! Mere words! How terrible they were! How clear, and vivid and cruel! One could not escape them. And yet what a subtle magic there was in them."_

_ -Lord Henry, The Picture of Dorian Gray  
_


End file.
